


Kir'manir

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 16: The Rescue, DINLUKE, Din Djarin Has Anxiety, Din Djarin Just Needs a Nap, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Force-Sensitive Din Djarin, Good Parent Din Djarin, Injury Recovery, Jedi Luke Skywalker, M/M, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Mando'a Language (Star Wars), Mild Blood, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, POV Din Djarin, Post-Episode: s02e08 The Rescue, Protective Cara Dune, SKYDALORIAN, Scars, Season/Series 02, The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), baby yoda hot potato, detailed description of medical care and wounds, sorry i hate bo-katan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28496469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: He lets go of everything.He reunites with his son, sees with his own eyes that he is safe, and just as quickly loses him again.He gives the child to the Jedi, watches them prepare to leave. He sins, removes his helmet; feels the faintest touch of his son's tiny hand against his tired skin.And then Bo-Katan shoots the Jedi in the back.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 127
Kudos: 832





	1. Shuk'la

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the Season 2 finale of "The Mandalorian" - which I'm assuming you already know about, if you're here looking for this fic!
> 
> You can hover over italicized Mando'a text with your mouse to see the English translations, which will also be listed at the end of each chapter for mobile readers.

The Jedi's back is turned, exposed, and of course this is why Bo-Katan shoots him.

He was such a fool.

A terrible scream draws itself out of him as the Jedi sways. He launches himself forward, terror clawing at his throat, and draws his gloved hands tight about the man's shoulders, scrabbling at his cloak. _Please,_ he prays to whoever is listening, _please let my son be safe._

He wrests the Jedi to the ground with one hand, scrabbling for his helmet on the polished floor with the other. The astromech shrieks and chitters nearby, creeping towards its master, but he shoves it off (perhaps a little too aggressively). Grogu squirms and babbles in the Force-user's arms; he must have instinctively held the child tighter, even despite the new wound gaping at his hip.

He pulls his helmet back on in one decisive stroke - leans over the Jedi lying on his side, checking for vitals. Bo-Katan's bolt hit him just below the waist, far enough to the right that it hit him dead on instead of merely grazing him. He is still breathing, but his eyes are shut and his face is screwed up in pain. Grogu wriggles from his grasp and crawls to Din, desperately, clutching at his armor feebly. His heart aches for his son. He scoops him up immediately and holds him close, cupping the back of his tiny head with his palm.

Only then does he turn to Bo-Katan - finding her, to his surprise, already splayed out on the deck, red hair askew. Cara and Fennec have made do with her and the other one, starting to drag their bodies, heavy with sleep, over to join the Moff.

His frenzied breathing slows. He loosens his grip on Grogu a little, sinks to the floor.

Cara tucks Koska's feet gently under one of the consoles, and then looks up at Din. His shoulders heave. He wishes more than anything that she could see now for her own eyes his gratitude, writ plain on his face.

She seems to feel it anyway - sends him a small smile before nodding towards the Jedi. "He okay?" she asks.

Din settles back on his haunches, peers down at the fallen Knight. He, too, is unconscious now, his breaths coming brittle and fast. He is shivering; his face is anguished. The blaster wound still sizzles, smokes at his back. It has yet to bleed. His droid whines nearby - melancholic and morose, like it can feel its owner's pain.

"Is," Din starts. The word dies in his throat, choked and tortured. He cannot believe this happened, after how hard, how _long_ he fought for his son to finally have a teacher...

Grogu coos tiredly in his arms, like he can sense his distress. He clears his throat and forces himself to say, "Is there a medbay...?"

Cara comes now, stands what would be unbearably close, under normal circumstances. He cannot bring himself to care now.

"Of course," she says gently, like she is speaking to a small, tired child. Din feels like one. His body aches; his armor is the only thing keeping him from falling apart, into thousands of tiny little pieces. He feels he may never be put back together again. He suspects Cara may sense this, as she takes one of her large, comforting hands and rests it powerfully on his shoulder, reeling him in. He holds Grogu closer, pressing his little head to his shoulder.

"I'll find the nearest one," Fennec calls from across the bridge, stationed at one of the computers.

"Is _he_ okay?" Cara asks, nodding now to the near-asleep Grogu in his arms. He can hardly keep his eyes open.

"He needs rest," Din breathes out shakily. "Food, too, probably. If we could find - if -"

"Can I take him to a mess hall?" Cara says, impossibly gentle. "We can go together if you want. I won't -"

"The Jedi," Din grates out. "I'll get - I'll - take care of the Jedi. You can - I trust you, Cara."

He hands the baby over to her, and she holds him so delicately, he thinks he might cry. Her gentleness, more than her brute force, is needed now by him and his son more than ever before.

"We'll find him something good to eat," she says, smiling sweetly, "and then we'll have a lie-down. I won't let him out of my sight, Mando, I promise you."

She takes her leave. Din returns his attention to the Jedi on the floor. He is afraid to touch him - especially in front of the droid, he can feel its uncompromising iron gaze upon him even now. He dares not violate this stranger's unspoken boundaries. But he must carry him to the medbay.

"I can come with you," Fennec offers, tentative and shy - like she is afraid he'll shoot her.

"No," he says, panickedly, a little too much emphasis on the word. "Can - we can't leave _them_ " - he jerks his head towards their newfound prisoners - "here alone. They might..."

Fennec nods furiously, as if she's mad at her own mistake. "I'll take care of them," she tells him, and then pulls up a holomap on one of the consoles. "The medbay's here."

He looks, but barely sees. He'll find it eventually. She helps him heave the Jedi up onto his back, careful to avoid his injury, and sees him to the door. The astromech follows tentatively.

"I'll keep an eye out for Boba," she says. "He should be coming back for me soon. I'll comm you when I receive contact." The awkwardness hangs thick in the air now, the cloud of adrenaline about them finally fading. She clears her throat and ducks her head, like she's afraid of making eye contact with him.

"Fennec," he says, as sincerely as he can. "Thank you."

She looks at him like she's searching for his eyes beneath his heavy visor, then nods. He can ask for nothing more.

He hoists the Jedi a little more securely, his body slung about his shoulders, and looks over at the droid.

"Come on," he says to it, and sets off in search of the medbay.

It's not far; Fennec had the foresight to switch on the illuminated sign etched in Basic above the door so he can find where it is. He nearly trips over the mess of what remains of the Dark Troopers outside the blast doors, but manages to regain his footing and step carefully between their mangled limbs. He feels goosebumps prickle at his skin as he shuffles down the hallway, careful not to knock the Jedi's limp body against anything as he goes. The star destroyer is too quiet, save for the eerie, garbled mumbling of what sounds like a protocol droid a few levels down. The R2 unit follows in his shadow, gliding along quietly on its rollers down the dark corridor.

He stumbles a little at the door, but catches himself before he loses hold of the man on his back. He is surprised the Jedi's stayed unconscious through all of this. Perhaps he's in some sort of... meditative state, like Grogu was on Tython. Reaching out for other Jedi, perhaps. Searching for help.

 _I_ will _help you,_ Din promises him, says quietly to himself. _I will protect you so you can teach my son the ways of the Force._

He lugs the man into the medbay and pauses for a moment, gaining his bearings and letting his eyes adjust to the sudden, sterile brightness of the room after the darkness of the claustrophobic hallway. The droid sails in behind him, beeping and whistling softly.

It feels sickly in the worst sense. The stench of some godforsaken chemical meets his nose immediately, makes his eyes water even through the seal of his helmet. He flinches and blinks; hopes whatever the smell is isn't inconveniently toxic to the Jedi. He has no idea where he hails from, nor what sorcerers in particular are susceptible to.

The room is too clean, too bare. He finds a button on the wall and presses it, standing back as an exam table slides out of the off-white paneling and comes to a halt at waist height. His back groans its relief as he slides the Jedi onto the counter as carefully as he can. He props him up on his side, so as to avoid disturbing the wound, and keeps a tentative hand on the man's chest to prevent him falling down onto the floor.

He isn't quite sure how to go about this. It feels almost as if he is violating this man, desecrating a sacred space, given his unconsciousness. He wonders if there's anything he can wake him up with in the medical stock - a stimulant of some kind, perhaps...

Din moves his gloved hand, brings it down - applies gentle pressure to the man's hip to keep him stationary - and reaches with the other up into the cabinets above. He is dimly aware of the sleeping medical droid in the corner that could help find what he's looking for, but doesn't trust an Imperial bot as far as he can throw it, "nurse" or not. Who knows what the droid will do to a disheveled, haggard-looking stranger once awoken? And, well, maybe the R2 could wake it, quell it, override its systems and reprogram it somehow...

He thinks of the loyalty of droids: the sincerity he has encountered, the eagerness to please he has found in ones like IG-11. He knows this one is true to its Jedi master, seems almost to care for him.

But he cannot trust. Not yet. They are both still strangers to him, the Jedi and his helper, no matter their affiliations. He doesn't know the Jedi had no plans to kill him, once he realized what - or who - stood in the way of collecting Grogu. It would be naïve to let his guard down, assume otherwise - even when something compels him to give this man his complete and utter confidence - has conveyed to Din the Jedi's honesty since the moment their eyes first met.

Din shakes himself. Now is not the time; not when his hand still rests so closely at the Jedi's waist.

The overhead shelves are barren; almost as if the supplies have been taken away, in preparation for their arrival. He daren't move to look elsewhere - he could drop the Jedi - but...

"Right," he announces - out loud, for the room's overall benefit. "Um."

He grips the man's shoulder as gently as he can, shakes him a little.

"Jedi," he says quietly. "Wake up."

The wizard stirs a little, his brow furrowing slightly in his sleep. He must hear Din.

"Jedi," he says, louder, more pronounced now. "Come on, you've gotta let me help you. Get up."

More movement - a tiny, tired noise, but the eyes stay closed. He is afraid of damaging the Jedi further; feels he cannot touch the Jedi's face. He cannot be allowed this most intimate of acts with someone he has only just barely met. Has not even had the chance, really, to _properly_ meet.

He takes a step back, bows his head. He closes his eyes, hears the droid's head swiveling as it surveys the scene. How ridiculous he must look: a Mandalorian bowed at the bedside of a Jedi. But he pushes this from his mind.

 _Let me help you,_ he thinks, pouring all of his focus into the words. His hand rests on the Jedi's cloaked arm. _Please._

For a terrible, long moment, nothing but the faint buzzing of drowsing medical equipment fills his ears.

And then the Jedi comes to with an awful gasp, like all the air's been sucked out of him. He jolts and swings upright, slipping instinctively into a defensive stance, his legs hanging off the bed and meeting the floor -

"No," Din says, gruffly, and moves forward to catch him. The sorcerer wheezes as he collides with Din's armored chest, his eyes wild and wide and blue, all semblance of recognition lost. It takes a while for him to realize who the Mandalorian is, but Din keeps his grip on the Jedi's arms steady and firm as his heavy breathing abates. The droid chitters anxiously, edges forward - but Din holds out a hand, motions for it to stay back; is glad when it obeys.

"Where," the Jedi croaks, voice weak, "where's Grogu?"

"He's safe," Din tells him, "he's eating. Or sleeping. He's with my friend."

"Is he -"

"Yes, he's alright."

The Jedi swallows heavily, nods a little frantically. Din feels the panic, radiating off him in waves, begin to quell.

"Can you sit up by yourself?" he asks. "Do you need - ?"

"I'm okay," the Jedi mutters, waving him off. For the first time since he's woken up, he seems to realize there's a gaping hole in his side, and presses a hand to the wound, his features twisted in pain. The astromech rushes to its master and babbles excitedly as soon as Din moves away.

"Hey, Artoo," says the Force-wielder. He pats the droid's domed head and smiles fondly (if a little weary), like he's reuniting with an old friend.

Din eyes him for a second, his hands hovering a bit, before moving away and making his way over to the cupboards on the opposite wall.

He searches the entire room, finds nothing. There are a few bandages and salves tucked at the back of a single, tiny drawer, but no bacta gel like he had hoped, prayed.

"What are you looking for?" the Jedi asks him weakly.

"Bacta," he says - a little shorter than he'd meant for it to come out. His frustration is getting to him. "But there's nothing."

"Artoo, help him, will you?" the Jedi asks. The astromech beeps joyously and moves immediately to the meddroid holed up in the corner.

"Don't wake it up," Din barks, panickedly - just as Artoo plugs into the robot's mainframe port at the back of its head with a loud _click_.

The Jedi looks at him curiously. "Not a fan of droids, are you?"

Din clenches and unclenches his fists awkwardly, unsure of what to say. It is too soon, much too early to pour his heart out to this man, explain the underlying fear and grief - but he cannot stay silent. He settles on, "Not the biggest, no," and then turns swiftly back to the cabinets, ducking down to retrieve the gauze from within and avoid the subject as politely as he can.

"I get that," the Jedi says. The sound of his voice moves a little behind Din; he must be shifting around on the table. "I, uh, never caught your name, by the way."

Din stands, turns back to face him. "Didn't get yours, either."

The other man smiles, small and sheepish. "That's because I, um, didn't think to give it," he explains. His droid must say something snide to him from across the room, then, because it chooses this moment to start chattering outlandishly, and it brings a wonderfully warm blush to the Jedi's cheeks. "Shut up, Artoo," he says, but he's still grinning anyway.

Din's heart stutters a little under all his _beskar_.

"I'm Luke," the Jedi tells him, seemingly oblivious to the effect his smile has on the man opposite him. "Luke Skywalker."

He pauses, like he's waiting to see what reply this will elicit. His eyes are very, very blue, like no sky Din's ever seen before. He thinks he could lose himself in a horizon like this.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly, remembering it is his turn to reply. His grip on the fabric in his hands is maybe a little too tight.

This seems to have been the right response; Luke rewards him with another of those smiles that tears at Din's chest. Din closes his gaping mouth, is glad the Jedi cannot see his face beneath his helmet. At least, he hopes. He still isn't quite sure exactly how this Force thing works.

"What can _I_ call you?" Luke asks, a little grin tucked in the corner of his mouth. He's surprisingly cheery for a man who just recently had a blaster bolt run clean through his torso.

"Oh," Din says - eloquently, _definitely_ not distractedly. "Uh. Mando's fine."

Luke frowns for a moment, like he'd been hoping for more, but nods anyway. He opens his mouth to speak again, but suddenly, Artoo unplugs from the meddroid and whistles cheerily, announcing the completion of its task.

"Thanks, Artoo," Luke says graciously. He is unlike any droid owner Din has ever encountered - but no time for him to dwell on this, as Luke continues: "Artoo says all the stock was removed and ejected prior to your arrival. There isn't a lick of bacta on this ship, not even in the garbage disposals." He smiles to himself then, like he's just made a joke. Din opts to pretend he understands, thinks for a moment.

"Did it check the escape pods, too?" he asks.

"Yeah. Nothing."

Din sighs, because, _of course._ Of course Gideon wanted to make their victory as hard as he possibly could. Of course he knew they'd be wounded, that there was little chance they'd all escape from battle unscathed.

 _I won't let this happen,_ Din thinks. _I promised Grogu I would find him a teacher._

"Right," he says, and tightens his grip on the roll of gauze in his hands. _"Mhi brokar urakto draar."_

"Hmm?" Luke hums, eyes widening a little as Din steps suddenly closer, his stride laced with newfound surety.

"I need you to take your shirt off," he instructs; watches Luke blink, taken aback, and try to understand what has just been said. He feels his own cheeks start to redden beneath his helmet.

"I'm going to dress the wound," he explains, hoping he has not already ruined this. "I will not let you die. I'll have to keep redressing it every few hours, but I think we'll have enough to last until Boba gets back."

"Okay," Luke says, still somewhat in shock. There's no way he's processing the words Din is saying, but he nods anyway and starts to remove his cloak and tunic.

Din turns his back to give the man some privacy, busies himself with tearing off strips of the gauze. "There might be something on the _Slave I_ we can use to patch you up better," he tells him over his shoulder, "at least until we can find a place to land and get you some real treatment. I'm not much of a medic, I'm afraid, but I'll..."

The words die in his mouth as he turns back around and takes in the sight before him.

The Jedi's chest is broad and toned, his arms impossibly firm and defined. Din's heart swoops, soars; goes for a barrel dive; does a loop-de-loop just for kicks. His body is tan, pockmarked with scars, like battle is his second skin. His right arm stops short just below the elbow, replaced by a mechanical, cyborgic sleeve, the panel of which Din can just see outlined at his wrist. He wonders what that hand would feel like in his own - if it would hold the same weight, the same warmth as his left.

Luke smirks at him, like he can read Din's thoughts. Perhaps he can - perhaps he knows Din likes what he sees.

"Can..." Din says weakly. He swallows, grateful, for the billionth time, that his helmet veils his visage so well.

"Can you sit with your side facing me?" he manages - watches as Luke moves carefully, his mischievous grin changing to a grimace as he repositions himself on the tabletop.

There isn't much blood; Din is glad of this. At least the Jedi is unlikely to bleed out, if he doesn't die from infection first.

He cleans and patches Luke's front, marveling at how lucky he was to have survived with no damage to his internal organs. Artoo coos in the corner and watches carefully as Din layers strips of dressing and secures them with medical tape against Luke's chest. He is painstakingly cautious not to let his fingers (albeit gloved) linger too long at the Jedi's abdomen. Luke seems to notice this; Din hears, feels a huff of air against his hands as he exhales a little smile.

For a few moments, all is well. Din is almost at peace as he works, feels the Jedi's chest rise and fall under his touch as he draws breath.

But then he moves to Luke's back, and he sees the scar, and his breath catches in his throat.

It is jaw-dropping, fragmenting away from his spine like he is some incredible piece of art that has been smashed: a piece of fine pottery glued haphazardly back together by the most vicious admirer of a visionary sculptor. Like the spidery cracks in the windshield of the _Razor Crest_ , splintering outwards like fractured ice. It is as if the Jedi has burst at the seams and been stitched up again, slowly and ambiguously, without semblance of reason. It is like Din's favorite quilted blanket as a child, that his adoptive mother cobbled together from scraps and rags the first week he had been taken in as a foundling...

He cannot help himself; he presses a palm to the center of Luke's spine, where the lightning breaks away from an awful, ridged knot of dulled scar tissue. The silver lines run like _beskar_ rivulets across the plane of his skin - like the Armorer's molten metal seeps hot, poured into molds, shaped into the pauldrons of Din's sheathing - forged into the mudhorn crest emblazoned on his shoulder.

It is terrible. It tells of unspeakable pain. Luke shudders under his touch, but does not jerk away.

Din says nothing, dares not ask. He draws his hand back, busies himself with the bandages. Tries to pretend his fingers do not shake when he fixes the tape to Luke's marred skin.

The Jedi has shown him this horrible secret - has given up this innermost part of himself without pretense. He had no choice, _had_ to remove his bloodstained tunic, but...

Din owes him.

He lowers his voice, speaks softly: "Din Djarin."

Luke rolls his shoulders, leans into Din's hands as he presses the wrappings to his back. "What?"

"My name is Din Djarin," he tells him.

He waits for one long moment, then moves away and lets it pass.

"You should get some rest," he says. His voice feels heavy in his mouth. "I'm going to go check on Grogu, but I'll find you some blankets and water. Maybe some painkillers, too, while I'm at it."

Luke nods and shifts around on the exam table, doesn't meet his eyes.

The R2 unit has found some mismatched bedding tucked away in a cobwebbed shelf, in what must've been the chief medical officer's adjacent quarters. Din pads the tabletop with it and wonders why there are no cots in the sickbay.

Then, he remembers, the only people deemed worthy of recovery on this ship had their own, warm beds to recuperate in.

He helps Luke lie down on the table and dims the lights. Artoo stations itself in the corner nearest Luke and hums quietly to itself.

As Din turns to leave, he hears Luke call out to him.

"Din," he says softly - and the sound of his name on the Jedi's lips nearly unravels him.

"Yes," he croaks, daring not to turn around. _I'm here,_ he does not say. _I barely know you, but I will come when you call._

A pause. Something stretches, aches impossibly between them. A thought nestles itself quietly in the back of Din's mind - curls up and lies dormant for him to discover later.

The Jedi says, impossibly quiet, "Thank you."

Din finds it difficult to breathe. He lets the silence grow, wants to reach back and touch the Jedi again and again and again, feel the warmth of the Force beneath his star-kissed skin.

Finally, he tells him, "I'll be back soon," and nearly trips out of the room.

The door slides shut behind him; he is again grateful, for it means Luke will not see him stagger, slump against the wall, the turmoil of what has happened finally catching up to him. He gasps for air, panic threatening to overtake him. If Bo-Katan had missed and hit Grogu instead - if he hadn't managed to jump in time, and Gideon had hit his mark - if - if the Jedi had never even shown up in the first place, or they had arrived on the star destroyer too late, or he hadn't been able to open the airlock in time...

His vision clouds as tears bloom at his eyes, dangerously close to dripping down from under his helmet and trickling like rain against his armor.

There isn't time for this. He needs to find Cara and see for himself that Grogu is safe. And he promised Luke - the blankets, the numbing agent Fennec might have stashed away beneath her robes...

Later, he will find some crowded, dusty closet, far from earshot of the Jedi and his motley little crew, and allow himself to feel. He will cut the thick cord that binds his grief like a noose - let himself remember how similar losing Grogu felt to losing his mother, his father. Let himself sob into the muffled static of his helmet, in some forgotten corner of this thrice-damned ship. He will hold Grogu close and cry silent tears while he sleeps, wash everything away and focus on the steady breathing of his exhausted child.

There will be time, while they wait for Boba to return, and the Imperial cruiser slips silently into murky, uncharted space. Later.

Now he takes a shaky breath, and goes to find his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando'a Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _Kir'manir_ \- To give one a soul  
>  _Shuk'la_ \- Broken  
>  _beskar_ \- Mandalorian iron  
>  _Mhi brokar urakto draar._ \- We'll do this the hard way.
> 
> A minor disclaimer: I'm a music major with little to no STEM experience/knowledge - so if I made any grave errors in my description of how and where the blaster shot affected Luke's anatomy, please feel free to correct me in the comments!
> 
> (Also, there'll be a lot more Mando'a in chapters to come!)


	2. Rejorhaa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE NOTE:** this chapter's very Mando'a heavy - so don't forget you can hover over the italicized text with your mouse (on computer) for direct translations! **For mobile readers, I've also provided all translations in the end notes.** Working on a way to streamline accessibility of translations in future chapters...

_Thud, thud, thud._

His footsteps echo up and down the corridor as he walks, ghostly in their reverberations against the wide, black walls. He keeps scaring himself when he passes by doorways, spotting the white interior of the rooms within and immediately thinking _stormtrooper_ on instinct. Grogu must be catching onto his distress, for he jolts awake in the _birikad_ pouch at his side every time he feels Din start.

 _"Takisit, Gro'ika,"_ he will say, patting Grogu's little head in a show of apology. Grogu coos a little, sometimes reaches out to grab Din's hand and clutches at it like it is all he'll ever need. He thinks he can feel his heart shatter in his chest each time.

His stomach hurts. There has been no word from Boba, no comm from Fennec while he paces. Anxiety pools like magma in the pits of his belly, to the point where it's become a little difficult to walk.

But he must. He checks on Luke every twenty minutes, and is too restless to sleep. His body wouldn't let him if he tried - he's too on edge. And Grogu likes the walking. He's so used to action now, constant movement, that it's easier for him to fall asleep this way, rocking steadily, gently forward at Din's hip.

Luke Skywalker is the polar opposite, they have learned. Imperial technology is so refined, the star cruiser doors are practically silent - but the first time he'd come to check on the Jedi, after knocking him out with some of the symoxin Fennec lent him, he'd woken up immediately and nearly killed Din with his lightsword. He's now resolved, after profuse apologizing on both fronts, to simply stand outside and listen for Luke's somewhat labored breathing through the door as best he can.

He _has_ to stay nearby, in case something goes wrong. He cannot mess this up again.

"Mando."

Din glances down at his wrist, checking to see if he's missed any pings. Nothing from Fennec; ten more minutes until he returns to the medbay - and maybe he'll go inside this time, he thinks it's been a few hours since Luke last fell asleep...

"Mando!"

It takes Grogu reaching up and pulling at his arm for him to realize someone is calling for him.

He spins, finds Cara standing down the hall, ridiculous arms crossed and something of a scowl on her face - but it's really a half-smile, like she's trying to be angry at him, but just can't force herself.

His stomach gurgles.

"You look like shit," she grunts. "When's the last time you ate? Or _slept?"_

"Uh," Din says, eloquently.

She sighs heavily and shakes her head as she approaches. Din now realizes why she's never settled down, had kids - she's already too busy mothering _him_.

"What are we going to do with him?" she asks Grogu, rolling her eyes at Din now that she's standing in front of him. "Ridiculous. How's he supposed to take care of you if he can't even take care of _himself?"_

"Hey -"

"Canteen, helmet-head. Now. Not optional." She grabs his elbow and starts frog-marching him down the hall.

"What about - ?"

"The Jedi's not gonna die if you take _half an hour_ away from him," she berates. "I know you think he's cute and everything, but jeez, Mando, you're like a teenager."

His stomach chooses, at this moment, to chime in wholeheartedly in support of Cara, so he deigns not to respond.

The mess hall is very much like the one he and Mayfeld ate in during their stint on Morak - except this one is much bigger, and, if possible, even darker, more dismal-looking. The refinery's muted, dull grays are replaced here by smooth, slick black, oozing like tar off of every surface and gleaming like the Dark Trooper's beetle-shell armor. It makes Din feel even more sick, and he falters a little, like the wind's been knocked out of him.

He feels rather than sees Grogu look up at him, senses the concern emanating from his son. Another little pat, a whispered, "It's okay, kid," and a slow, deep breath seem enough to quell his fears.

Cara, intent on her mission, doesn't seem to notice he's stopped, barreling towards the enclosed kitchen station at the far left wall and hopping the counter like it's nothing. Din cannot help but smile to himself as he catches a glimpse of her through the serving window, watching her ransack the freezers at the back (the locks on which she has already broken) and retrieve several packets of dehydrated rations.

"You like veg-meat?" Cara calls over her shoulder at him. He grunts, forces himself to plod forward and watch her heat up the protein in a pan on the industrialized, touchless Imperial stovetop.

"Yeah, that's fine," he says weakly. "Is there... I can find something for Grogu -"

She's already holding up a packet of what look to be biscuits, and when he moves closer, he sees there's a skillet of prevva eggs already sizzling on another burner. Cara's gone full domestic, it seems.

It takes not even five full minutes for the food to be cooked and piled, heaping, onto a tray Cara thrusts eagerly into Din's hands once she's exited the kitchen again. For herself, she grabs two octagonal cups from the counter that Din hopes are filled with water - and then she quickens her stride again, bustling out of the cafeteria and handing Din one of the cups on her way past.

"Good thing Gideon didn't eject all the food, too," she says, their fingers brushing briefly as he takes the water from her.

"I don't think he was counting on us making it this far," he says - and then asks, bewildered, "Wait, aren't we eating in here?" as she beckons for him to follow in her wake.

"Way too creepy for me," she says, and he breathes a sigh of relief he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

They wander the maze-like passageways and eventually make their way up to the bridge. It still feels nightmarish to him that just a few days ago, this place was a scene of disaster for them - of life as he knows it ending forever. The littered bodies of the stormtroopers and officers they killed have been disposed of in the airlock, but he still feels the reek of death. Remembers where their bodies lay, scattered around the room like broken dolls.

He puts this from his mind; now is not the time to dwell on how he hates killing, how he is still processing his parents' deaths, decades later. How he feels each life he takes like it is his own. How he chose the path of bounty hunter because his tribe encouraged it, expected it - but tries his damndest to bring his marks in warm every time.

"Where's Fennec?" he asks. He hopes his helmet's processor hides the shaking of his voice.

"She's with Bo-Katan, I think," Cara tells him, scanning the room for a place they can sit. "Trying to find out why she decided to shoot the Jedi. Something about... she kept saying Mandalorians and Jedi don't get along and never have, but..."

She jabs her chin over at one of the holodesks in the center of the room, and they make their way over to it.

"Speaking of which, did you talk to him?" she asks, as they settle down and start to dig in. Din lifts Grogu gently out of his pouch and sets him on the table, where he blinks happily, albeit still tired, at the two of them.

"Who?" he asks once he is sure Grogu is stable. He turns his polystarch roll over in his hands, before tearing little pieces off of it and handing them to his son, smiling widely as Grogu babbles his delight.

"You know _who_ ," Cara chides, rolling her eyes, but keeping them lowered while Din lifts his helmet to eat. "Did you find out who he is?"

He chews for a moment, lets his helmet slip back over his mouth before he replies. "His name is Luke Skywalker," he says thoughtfully. "I didn't find out much more than that, really, except -"

"Did you say _Luke Skywalker?"_ Cara near-shrieks. "Are you kidding me? Luke _kriffing_ Skywalker?"

"Yeah," Din says, "do you know him?"

She stares at him, aghast, mouth agape. "Are," she stammers. "You - you can't be serious, Mando."

He feeds Grogu a spoonful of egg before realizing she's genuinely shocked at his reaction. "What?" he says. "Am _I_ supposed to know who he is?"

"He," she says, in shock. "He's only the guy who saved the entire galaxy, _twice?"_

"Oh," says Din. "Huh. That's cool."

"I mean, dank farrik, Mando, you been living under a _rock_ the past ten years?" Cara says, seemingly appalled at his ignorance. "Ever heard of the _Death Star?"_

Din bristles a little, is glad she can't see him rolling his eyes behind his helmet. "Yes, I know about the Death Star," he says. "I'm assuming this Luke person had something to do with it?"

"Uh, _yeah_ , he's only the person who _blew it up_ the first time," Cara informs him through a mouthful of biscuit. Grogu gurgles a little and lifts his little hands up in appeal, waiting for her to hand him one. She does so willingly, then continues: "And no one's really sure exactly how they got the second one, but I've heard rumors he was on it. Killed Darth Vader with his bare hands, or something."

Din mulls this over, chews on it thoroughly before speaking. "He had this scar. On his back. It looked like... like lightning or something. I didn't ask, but..."

"That's from the Emperor," she tells him, with all the finesse of a certified expert. "He had this crazy Force lightning stuff that he used on everyone. No one's supposed to be able to survive it."

"He must be very powerful, then," Din says softly - ignores the shit-eating grin Cara sends his way.

"Yeah, he's incredible. I can't believe he's here on this ship."

They drift into a comfortable silence, their thoughts wandering. Din wonders how this man can be so important, so instrumental to the galaxy's salvation, and still look at him like that. Still grace Din with the glory of his presence, with the star-light of his smile breaking like dawn across his face.

Grogu coos, crinkles the empty biscuit packet in his little fists. Din reaches for him, extending his arms, and he crawls forward eagerly on the table, letting Din pick him up and settle him in his lap.

Cara smiles adoringly at them. Din holds Grogu close, marvels at how lucky he is to steal a few more precious moments with his child before he's taken away again.

Before all hell breaks loose.

He is painfully aware of the Darksaber lying, abandoned, a mere three meters from them. He'd left it on one of the consoles when he carried Luke to sickbay. He has no intention of ever picking it up again. Wishes it had never come into his life, that he could shut it in the airlock and send it out for the stars to bear. They would make better use of it than he. Anyone would.

For a terrible moment, he focuses on it, looks at it, clutches Grogu a little tighter. He is overcome suddenly by the urge to toss it in the trash compactor nearby, let it be forgotten in this dying, battered husk of a ship.

But something stays his hand, tells him he cannot do this. He will leave it on the table for now, put off taking the mantle for as long as he can. Maybe he can convince Bo-Katan to take it from him, or Koska - or even Boba -

"Din," Cara says, drawing him from his thoughts. He sucks in a breath at the mention of his name. There is that gentleness that gripped her what feels like ages ago, grounded him a mere three days past. He isn't sure how long it's been since she last spoke. It may have been hours - he stands suddenly, holding Grogu close - he has to check on Luke -

 _"Din,"_ she says, rising with him, reaching out to grab his arm. "Hey. I think you need some rest. You look like you're about to pass out."

"I," he starts, protest jumping up in his throat, hackles raising.

"Stop," she orders. "You've been pushing yourself for too long. I haven't seen you sleep since... Mando, you haven't slept since before _Morak_. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I'm fine," he tries to tell her. He prays she cannot hear the rumbling of his stomach, conveying its agitation through his chest-plate.

"You're _not_ _._ Any idiot can see that. You'll kill yourself if you keep going like this."

He looks down at Grogu, who has turned in his grasp to stare up at him with wide eyes, ears drooping.

"Rest," Cara says. "Please. For your kid. I'll take care of the Jedi."

"I..." he starts again, weary. "You... okay."

Her smile alone makes it worth losing this argument to her. "You can't fix everything on your own, Mando. You have to let people help you sometimes."

He swallows thickly, fighting back tears. He isn't sure what he has ever done to deserve her kindness. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says, like she means every word.

* * *

Din wakes to the sound of his wrist comm pinging.

For a moment, he is wildly disoriented. The darkness of the room he is in speaks, _Trap,_ and panic jolts through his aching limbs. _"Gro'ika,"_ he rasps, voice rough from disuse. The sound of his freed, unmuffled voice shocks him - _where's my kriffing helmet?_ \- he struggles to breathe, pushing himself up into a sitting position and flailing around in the pitch dark, his eyes struggling to adjust - has Bo-Katan kidnapped him? Has Gideon escaped? Is Luke - is _Grogu_ -

Something feather-light shifts and murmurs quietly against his chest, clutching, grabbing at his armor, and he realizes it's his son.

His breath shudders out of him in a sudden, shaky laugh. "Hey," he says, taking Grogu into his arms and hugging him as close as he can without hurting him. "Hey, I'm so sorry, kid, did I scare you?"

Grogu is too sleepy to reply, burying his head in the softness of Din's long-sleeved undershirt. He remembers now. They are nestled in one of the dusty, cramped Imperial supply closets, an aluminum blanket folded at his waist. This is where he found the extra bedding and thermal blankets for Luke, on that terrible first day - and where he settled to nap, by order of Cara.

He wonders how long it's been, scrubs at his eyes, his bare face. His helmet shines a little, even in the darkness of the room, and he fixates on it sitting in the corner while he waits for his vision to finally adjust.

Dimly, he realizes his comlink is still beeping irritatedly at him, from the pile of armor next to his helmet. Grogu whines a little at the noise - complains even more as Din moves, turns onto his hip to reach for it and answer.

"Yes?" he says blearily, still shaking the weight of sleep-ridden alarm from his mind.

 _"Oh, finally,"_ says a crackly, static-y Fennec through the little built-in speakers of his gauntlet. _"You okay, Mando?"_

 _"I told you he's a heavy sleeper,"_ Cara's voice sounds in the background. Din cannot keep from grinning.

"I'm fine," he says; "sorry it took so long for me to pick up. What's going on?"

 _"Boba contacted us,"_ Fennec relays. _"You should probably come to the bridge."_

He blinks slowly, surprised. He'd figured it would take much longer for Fett to get in touch with them. He had thought they days, weeks, even...

 _"Mando?"_ Fennec says, when his silence has drawn on too long. _"Still there?"_

"Uh - yeah, copy. I'll, uh... I'll be there in ten."

He switches off the channel and sighs. He hadn't expected to have to deal with this so soon. The Darksaber still sits on the table where he left it, but he feels its weight at his side anyway. Its _beskar_ -plated ghost. He wishes he had never picked it up - that he'd just left it on the floor for Bo-Katan to find for herself. Maybe she would have less qualms in taking it if he had never touched it...

He sighs again, pushes the blanket off and lets it fall to the floor. His face is that special kind of sore you only experience when you have cried yourself to sleep. While Grogu had drifted off almost immediately, it had taken Din a while - during which he sat between the suffocating, claustrophobic silence of the storage room shelves and tried desperately not to think.

It was pointless. It was terrible. He couldn't help but keep reliving, over and over again, the moment he had failed his son: when he had just _let_ the Dark Troopers seize him, carry him up to where the star cruiser was docked, looming above the Seeing Stone... And then the tears had come, falling before he could stop them: trickling down the sides of his face as he lay in the cluttered room, his breaths coming shallow and quick, his lungs burning.

He hadn't cried as much as he thought he would; he was too tired. But he held his son to his chest and thought about how brave he had been, braver than he will ever be, and could not help but weep until exhaustion overtook him.

He dresses now - sets Grogu down, nestled in the balled-up blanket, and pulls his armor on. His breastplate over his head, his pauldrons fastened to his shoulders, his shin-guards snapping at his legs. He has grown accustomed to the weight of untethered, untainted _beskar_ over the years, but it feels a little heavier now, with his body's soreness. He will take a day, once things have finally settled and been resolved, to sleep, maybe. Rest. Lie on an actual bed and do nothing for as many hours as he can bear.

His helmet is last, fitted perfectly over his face and sealing with a soft _snick_. He fastens his weapons to his belt, pulls on his gloves. Cradles Grogu gently in his arms, says softly, "Naptime's over, pipsqueak," and exits the room.

Even through the filters of his viewfinder, the dulled, muted lights of the hall outside are difficult to bear, after the blackness of the closet. He shuts and locks the door behind him before setting off down the passageway, blinking as he goes. Grogu is starting to wake up now, and even though he still has yet to start communicating verbally, Din can sense the air of grumpiness about him, disappointed at their rest's preemptive end.

Cara and Fennec are speaking in hushed voices at the bridge when he meets them, heads bowed over something on one of the desks with their backs to him. They turn to face him when they hear his approaching footsteps, both of their stony expressions settling over him in an air of unease. He wonders if - has Boba - ?

Then his eyes land on the table behind them, and he understands.

"Um," he begins. Tries his best not to sigh frustratedly.

"Mando," Cara says. The edge in her voice tells him she is trying her best not to shout. "Is there a reason you left this here?"

She picks it up and handles it delicately, like she's afraid it'll ignite in her fingers. She holds it out to him, offering him the Darksaber - his right, his destiny - like it is his to take. He is loathe to accept. He is scared of the person he will become, the person he must be if he does.

"I forgot," he says, lamely. "There's been a lot going on."

"What if someone stole it?" Fennec asks, more than a note of worry in her tone. "What if Bo-Katan - ?"

"She's not going anywhere, you made sure of that," he says - and finally takes the saber from Cara, clipping it at his belt as quickly as possible. It hangs like a shackle at his waist, heavier than any piece of armor on his person. "And besides, even if she somehow _did_ escape, she won't just take it. She made it pretty clear she's gotta kill me first."

His spear of pure _beskar_ has also remained on the bridge, leaning upright against one of the control panels. He stalks over to it now, slides it into the sheath at his back, behind his artillery.

"You can't just leave things like that lying around, Mando," Cara chastises, looking more like a mother now than ever before. She bites her lip, clearly torn. "I may not understand what... exactly it means to you guys, but - if Bo-Katan's willing to try and kill you over it, I don't think it's something you should be taking lightly."

"I'm not," Din says brusquely - desperate to move on to things that actually matter. "How far is Boba?"

Fennec looks at Cara, both obviously dissatisfied at his avoidance of the topic. "He's two hours out," she says reluctantly, after a moment's hesitation. "Said we can leave with him as soon as he docks."

"And you explained everything to him?" he asks. "You told him about... the situation?"

They both nod. "He agreed to take us as far as we need," Cara says. "And he mentioned he's got some medical supplies on his ship, that he thought you and the Jedi could put to use."

"How is he?" Din asks her. "The Jedi."

"He's good. I redressed his wounds, he says he's been sleeping well. Not much pain, said he can't harp on anything. Oh, and he hopes you're doing alright." She gives him another of those terrible little smirks, like she knows, has seen Din's heart for herself. Knows what he longs for - knows that he -

"That's, um, that's nice of him," he stutters, coughing a little. "Good. Glad to, uh, hear it."

He doesn't miss the glance Fennec sends Cara, when they think he isn't looking. Grogu giggles a little in his arms.

"So where do we go from here?" he says hastily, eager once more to speak of something else. "How are we... uh, gonna take care of Gideon and everything? Get him onboard the ship without him trying to kill us?"

Another little smile exchanged between Cara and Fennec - this one much more cunning. He's starting to regret ever having introduced the two. "Fennec happened to spot a carbon freezing station on one of the lower levels," Cara tells him. "Think a little hibernation oughtta do the Moff some good, while he's waiting to stand trial."

"And we thought we'd leave the Mandalorians to you," Fennec says, nodding to Din. "They... they're your people, after all. We weren't exactly sure what to do with them, so we figured..."

"I'll take care of them," he says, squaring his shoulders. It comes out a little more menacingly than he means it to. Grogu shivers a little in his arms, squeaks softly; he hands him over to Cara and pulls the _beskar_ spear from his back again. "Where did you put them?"

Fennec flexes her shoulders a little, like a chill has run down her spine at the sight of him. "Gideon's in the brig. The Mandolorians are in two rooms on opposite ends of the ship."

"Where is Bo-Katan?"

"I'll take you to her."

Cara gives him a look he cannot read as he passes her on his way out. Perhaps she thinks he will kill the two Mandos, can sense the rage pouring from him. Grogu whimpers in her arms, like he feels it, too.

 _Don't worry,_ he thinks. _I'll take care of us. I'll find out why she chose to take your life into her hands, and I'll make sure she never comes near us again._

His son blanches, as if he can hear him.

Fennec leads him a few floors down in the lift, to a particularly ominous corridor. They don't speak. It's unnaturally quiet as they walk down the hall, their footsteps breaking the silence like a terrible death march. Din wonders what will happen when he enters the room - if he'll be able to control himself when he sees her.

His guide stops, and opens the very last door, ducking in quickly before he can enter. "Get up," he hears her sneer. "Visitor for you."

He takes a breath, steadies himself - grips the spear tighter in his hand, and steps inside.

Bo-Katan sits, stuncuffed, face bare, in the corner of what appears to be a large, empty, black-plated conference room. She stares at Din coldly as he moves towards her, but he catches her eyes flickering to the spear in his grasp more than once. She must think he's here to kill her, too.

"Good luck getting this one to talk," Fennec says to him. "I'll wait for you outside."

He keeps his eyes on Bo-Katan, hears the door slide shut behind his companion as she leaves. A terrible silence hangs between them, like a tightrope he is walking. He is careful not to slip.

He thinks of the first time he met her, and how ruthless she had been then - how cold-blooded, unrelenting she has always been. He wonders, were their roles reversed, if she would take her revenge.

"You have a lot to answer for," he says.

She simply looks at him, does not reply. He can tell she is trying to keep her face blank, emotionless, but so many years of wearing a helmet makes you start to let your guard down. Even if you break with creed and take it off, blazing non-traditionalist that you are. Her hatred for him shines on her visage with all the brightness of a dying star.

He takes a few steps forward, the sound of his boots echoing off of the awful walls, the cold, hard floor. She curls a little into herself as he approaches, backs her into her corner. She is a proud, steeled woman, but even she cannot hide her fear as he draws near.

This is not a fact he revels in. He wishes this were different.

He lowers himself slowly, dropping into a crouch, the spear angled off-kilter - says, "Tell me why you did it."

She tilts her head away, squeezes her eyes shut. He sees the bruise Cara gifted her as she turns, blossoming purple and pink against her brow. _If you're going to do it,_ he can practically hear her thinking, _at least make it quick._

"Answer me," he says. "You _owe_ me, Bo-Katan. After everything I did to help you."

She jerks back to look at him now, eyes blazing, like she wants nothing more than to lash out, attack him - yet she refuses to speak.

Din gets to his feet. He hates this. He loathes that he must do this, but she has left him with no other options.

 _"Ke'jorhaa'ir,"_ he says through gritted teeth, the ancient syllables rolling harshly, a little uneven off his tongue. It has been many moons since he last carried out a full conversation in Mando'a - but this is not the sort of thing that leaves you overnight. His way of life is not something he will soon forget.

He takes the spear, thrusts the blunt end of it to the floor. It sings like the most beautiful of crystals, the purest of metals. It rings off of the walls until it is piercing. Bo-Katan winces, scrabbles with her cuffs like she's trying to cover her ears. Din feels the sheer power of the weapon rippling through him, his _beskar_ plates reverberating, buzzing with its call.

 _"Ni ke'gyce gar, sa Mand'alor,"_ he utters. There is nothing more that he can say.

She shifts from her position on the floor, head lolling like she is dizzy. Another bout of silence passes between them, and Din is about to come forward again when -

 _"Suvarir,"_ she says weakly, reluctantly: voice hoarse, breaking over the word.

He breathes a terrible sigh of relief, his frustration cresting and finally ebbing, easing away.

_ "Tion'jor gar rujurkad Jetii?" _

She clears her throat, says scratchily, with a terrible grin on her face, _"Ni rucopaanir akaanir gar. Par dha-kad."_

Din begins to pace. _"Tion'bid gar runarir sa areutii?"_ he asks.

 _"Meg ni runarir, par Manda'yaim,"_ she tells him proudly, icily. Like she is proud of what she has done. _"Tion'liser gar sirbur arasuum?"_

He does not break his stride. He moves back and forth, from wall to wall - says as calmly as he can, _"Gar dar'manda. R'aruetyc'ir gar Mando'ade. Rushukur ijaat."_

Bo-Katan struggles to get to her feet, pushing herself up with her fettered hands. _"Ni oyacyir de ner solus olar. Gar ruhiibir meg r'lbac'ner."_

 _"Ne_ copaanir!" he suddenly shouts, his fury finally overcoming him - seizes the cursed thing from his belt, hurls it to the floor. _"Ne copaanir! Ni dinu!"_

She stares at him, mouth open in a picture of perfect stupefaction. _"Tion'jor?"_ she breathes, like she cannot believe him.

 _"Nu'vaabir jare'la,"_ he tells her, voice cracking. _"An ibac jaon'yc ner ad. Naas ashi."_

 _"Ori'haat?"_ Bo-Katan says. The timbre of her speech is horrible, high-pitched and simpering, like she is mocking him. _"Tion'gar nunarir shebs'ul ne'waadas?"_

 _"Nayc."_ The word is harsh, definitive. He resumes his fevered pacing, the Darksaber lying like some sick magnet on the floor between them. He wishes he had the comforting warmth of Grogu at his side now. _"Kaysh an ibac jaon'nyc."_

She scoffs, jeers, _"Kote lo'shebs'ul narit. Gar laandur."_

They lapse into silence again, save for the steady thud of Din's footsteps and the awful, frenzied beating of his heart. She watches him like she is stalking prey, waiting for him to reveal a sign of weakness that she can pounce upon.

 _"Kaysh_ ori'haat _gar ad?"_ she asks suddenly, after a terrible moment has passed. _"Tion'runarir gai bal manda?"_

He draws a short breath, lets his march end - comes to a halt at the edge of the room, with his back facing her.

He thinks back to that night, when he had returned from her heist - when he left Grogu in the care of the passenger and her husband, in their little sea-side hostel with their vat full of eggs. The day he had almost lost his foundling, almost drowned. He remembers taking Grogu into the little alcove where they slept on the _Razor Crest_ , holding him tenderly in his lap and performing the ritual his _Mando'ade_ parents had done for him, when he had been found.

 _"Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad,"_ he had said, speaking in Mando'a to him for the very first time - saying the holy words for none other but his son to hear. Taking the little bit of _beskar_ he had melted down with his blowtorch, pressing it in now-cooled droplets to Grogu's little head and chest with his bare fingers. Inducting him into the Way before he even knew his true name.

 _"Elek,"_ he says now, head spinning with memories. _"Kaysh ner ad, de manda."_

He turns to meet her gaze. She seems to have nothing to say, her expression finally neutral.

Still the Darksaber lies before her, untouched. She has had every opportunity to take it, and _still,_ she refuses.

In shooting Luke, she had tried to goad Din into combat - force him to duel with her, so she could win the saber and extinguish any threat to her shot at the Mandalorian throne. He could do the same and kill her now; clear the way for his own rise to power, destroy anyone who stands in his path...

But he won't.

He sees Grogu's face in his mind's eye, remembers the promise he has made his son.

He does not yearn for glory. He does not fall for traps this easy.

 _"Ni akaan nu'ganar,"_ Din tells her. _"N'akaanir."_

 _"Me'ven? Tion'nu'ti kyr'amur?"_ she spits - her questions short and sharp and piercing, like the gaze she sends him now.

He sighs, says, _"Meh gar kyrayc, shuk bah ni."_ She flinches away as he walks forward, swipes the hilt of the Darksaber up from the floor and fastens it unwillingly to his belt. At the very least, he will not let it fall into the wrong hands again, if she still rejects his offer of it. _"Ni ba'slanar. Enteyor gar osik cinarin."_

She eyes the weapon at his side, like she still does not believe he will not hurt her. She is cunning, and cutthroat, and everything he will never be - _refuses_ to be.

 _"Can'gal dinuir,"_ he continues, _"meh orit troan tengaanar draar tug'yc. Tayli'bac?"_

She smiles at him menacingly, terribly; says, _"Ni taylir."_ The promise is cold and cruel upon her lips.

Din presses forward now, until he stands uncomfortably close. She edges back, trying to get as far away from him as possible, but can barely move, standing in the corner as she is. She is caught between a _beskar_ spear and a hard place.

 _"Jetii haa'taylir tug'yc, ni kyr'amur neparer,"_ he says. She shudders visibly at his threat, her eyes darting again to the weapon at his side, to the one in his steady grip.

 _"Ven'digur troan draar,"_ are his final words to her - and then he raises the spear, swings it down to strike at the durasteel binders shackling her hands together, cleaving them in two.

Bo-Katan looks up at him with something unknowable on her face. Whether it be gratitude, hatred - yearning for the weapon at his side, confusion at why he is letting her go - he will not stick around to find out. There is work to be done.

He feels Fennec's eyes upon him as they return to the bridge, cannot sense her judgement of his decision. Perhaps she was rooting for him to kill her, if her vicious treatment of their prisoner is anything to go by. Or maybe she thinks he has made the right choice, though fickle is her moral code.

It doesn't matter. It was his decision to make; they gave him that right. It _is_ his right, as unwilling as he is to accept it - but he is honorbound, as... as _Mand'alor_.

They set about preparing to meet Boba in the hangar. The next few hours pass by quickly as the four of them (Grogu included) start gathering supplies and weapons for their journey. Din comes to collect Luke when they receive their final comm from Boba, letting them know he's approaching and will dock shortly.

The Jedi looks a little better. Cara's been plying him with food and water while Din was otherwise occupied, and was sure to change his bandages every few hours or so. He is sitting upright on his makeshift bed when Din knocks softly and enters the medbay, speaking in a low voice to his droid and glancing up immediately when he hears Din. That wonderful, star-stricken smile blooms beautifully across his face at the sight of the Mandalorian, and again - _not for the last time,_ he thinks - Din's heart pounds furiously in his chest.

"Hello," he says, terribly awkward. He isn't sure what else to say. "Uh. We're leaving."

Din thought it impossible, but Luke's smile grows even wider at his words. "Hope I'm allowed to come with you," he says cheerily. Din marvels again at how upbeat he can be while he is suffering - wonders if the Jedi is truly happy to speak to him, or if this is just a mask, a wall thrown up in defense, to hide his true pain.

"Of course you are," Din says. He steps forward now, helps Luke get down from the table with a carefully-placed hand about his waist. He is mindful not to touch Luke's scar. "We're going to get you some help," he continues. "Fennec told me - I'm not sure if you've met her yet, but - she said Boba has some things we can actually use to patch you up."

He glances at Luke's wounds, sees the fresh, clean bandages Cara dressed him with not an hour before. He looks ready to go.

He doesn't really register him saying, nervously, "Boba. Right."

He helps Luke dress, pulling his shirt and cloak back over his head, and then they make their way to the docking bay, Luke leaning heavily against Din as they go. It is a slow and weary trek, and they have to stop a few times for Luke to recover - Artoo is very good at communicating Luke's weariness to Din, badgering him with incessant beeps until he slows his pace - but eventually, they make it.

Cara, Fennec, and Grogu lie in wait for them, standing next to the _Slave I,_ docked beneath the high eaves of the hangar. Boba stands before the three of them, helmeted and bold and proud, one hand on Fennec's shoulder. So at one with his culture, at peace with himself in a way Din will never know.

 _Later,_ he tells himself, grimacing a little at his weakness. He searches around for something to distract himself, and his eyes land on what looks to be a half-wrecked X-wing fighter perpendicular to the _Slave I._

"Is that your ship?" he asks Luke, who seems to deflate a little, withers in his hold.

"Han's gonna kill me," he mutters, and sighs heavily. "That's not the, uh, first time this has happened. A few of the droids came out to meet me when I landed, and, uh..." He gestures vaguely at the wreckage, the tattered, black metal that surrounds the ship. "They surprised me, let's say. We can leave it at that." Artoo beeps atrociously at this, and Luke grins a little sheepishly.

Din can't help but chuckle a bit. "We can take it with us," he tells the Jedi. "We'll load it onto the ship, get it fixed up wherever we land. I'll pay for it myself."

"Oh, no, you really don't -"

"It's the least I can do," Din interjects firmly, "for saving us all. For coming to teach Grogu. Taking a blaster bolt for my son."

Luke stills at his words, looks at him queerly. Like he can't figure Din out. Din likes it this way - nudges Luke forward, towards the rest of their party.

Boba is the first to greet them, turning towards the three of them and removing his helmet. "Well, well, well," he says. "Of all the Jedi in the galaxy, my friend, you just _had_ to pick him."

"What's wrong with this one?" Din asks - tightens his grip on Luke's waist, without quite realizing what he's doing. He glances over at him, sees that he is visibly pale. "I -"

Fett's hand is inching towards the blaster at his hip. Din stares between the two of them - makes eye contact with Cara and Fennec, who seem just as confused as he is - says, "You two... have a history?"

"If you call his friends throwing me into a _s_ _arlacc_ pit 'history,'" Boba says, horribly, his accent fluctuating over the foreign word. Din is not exactly sure what a sarlacc is, or how Luke and Boba could've ever possibly had reason to meet before, but -

"Look," Luke is saying, nothing short of terrified, "I'm so sorry - it really was circumstantial, I - I'm sure you're a really nice guy when you aren't trying to sell and kill the people I love -"

Boba bursts suddenly into ferocious, bawdy laughter. It echoes throughout the hangar, unimpeded by the filter of his helmet.

This is quite possibly the strangest standoff Din has ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

"You're right," Boba says, once he has finished being the only person thoroughly and utterly amused by the situation at hand. "I _did_ try to kill your boyfriend. It is all in the past now."

This nearly bowls Din over, so shocked is he by Boba's words. Luke appears flabbergasted, too, a lovely pink blush gracing his cheeks - he stammers, chokes out, "He isn't - we - he never - that -"

"Let bygones be bygones," Fett steamrolls over him. "There is work to do, come. We must load the ship."

"The sooner we get outta here, the better," Cara adds. Grogu wiggles excitedly in her arms.

Din hands Luke over to Fennec, helps Cara and Boba heave all of their supplies into the _Slave_ 's cargo bay. Half of Luke's destroyed X-wing will fit on the ship; the rest will have to be carried behind them in a tractor beam, having remained somewhat intact. Din wonders if this is the same craft he had blown up the Death Star in, at the hearty, hale age of a mere nineteen years. But he pushes these thoughts from his mind, waving to Grogu as he helps Cara carry one of the forlorn-looking pieces up the ramp. Grogu has been sitting on a little crate this whole time, watching them exit and re-enter the ship, and blinking happily at Din every once in a while. He can tell his son is ready to be rid of this wretched place. He takes special pleasure in shoving Gideon's carbon-frozen body into the darkest, dankest corner of the _Slave I_ 's hold.

As he comes out of the ship for the final time, he spies two forlorn figures standing at the edge of the hangar, near the lift doors. He recognizes them immediately from their armor: Bo-Katan and Koska, looking awkward and unsure of themselves, even as proud as they once were. Both of them are rubbing at their wrists, now free of stuncuffs, and wincing a little. Din feels a slight pang of regret as he makes his way over to them.

Bo-Katan looks at him with hesitancy in her eyes, her bare face as he approaches, like she is unsure of herself. Unsure of what to say, perhaps, after their last exchange. But then he is standing before the both of them, and her face folds, crumples into a look of what could be remorse - and she bows deep before him, murmurs, _"Mand'alor."_ Koska stares at her in what seems like silent distress, before glancing at Din fearfully and falling into a bow herself, repeating his new title.

He curls his hands into fists at his side. He does not want this, has never wanted this, but he is compelled to speak.

"Will you take it?" he asks, for the final time. Bo-Katan rises from her obeisance and looks at him, hard.

"No," she says again, as he knew she would. "It is yours, as much as I want it. You won the duel; it's yours by right."

"Bo -" Koska starts, but her companion cuts her off with a swift, outstretched hand.

"It's his," she states, definitively. "It's his to use as he wishes. And I think it would be best" - she meets his gaze again, green eyes steely and sharp in their intensity - "if he were to use it to help reclaim Mandalore."

"No," is his simple, immediate answer. "I can't. I have a responsibility to my son -"

"Who you will be free of when the Jedi takes him from you. To train," she adds, like it is a sudden afterthought. "Mandalore needs you. You're its leader now, whether you like it or not."

"I _don't_ like it," Din protests, "and - I would be terrible at it. I'm not... I wasn't raised there like you. I was just a foundling; I wasn't born into power. I wouldn't know where to start, what to do. I would ruin it all."

She takes a moment to consider his words, head cocked slightly to the side like she is thinking. "Maybe so," she says, her words cautious, picked with obvious care - "but I think you'd surprise yourself. You certainly surprised me, with the lengths you were willing to go to. On this mission, in particular."

He turns away, finding it too difficult now to look at her.

"You were a different person in that room, you know," he hears her say. "In my holding cell. You were someone I liked. Someone I think would be good for our planet."

He feels sick at her words. He had hated who he was, in that dark, dark room.

"And it is _our_ planet," she continues. "Just as much yours as it is mine. You would be welcome in the fight to reclaim it, even though you weren't born there. _Mando'ade_ is a way of life, not a race."

He forces himself to look at her again. The tiniest hint of a smile quirks at the corner of her mouth.

"But I'll keep my promise to you," she says, in a sudden change of pace. "You won't be seeing me again. Thank you for the star-destroyer, _Mand'alor._ " Her smile morphs, water-slick, into a terrible smirk, like she's telling an inside joke he isn't allowed to be a part of.

Din nods, tastes copper in his mouth as he bites down on his tongue too bitterly. The two of them bow to him again, and he watches them begin to leave.

"Sorry about the Jedi, by the way," Bo-Katan tosses over her shoulder as they retreat. "Be sure to take good care of him."

He doesn't respond, though her taunting riles at him, boils at his blood.

"What was _that_ all about?" Cara scoffs as he walks back to the ship, takes Grogu from her steady arms.

"Just saying goodbye," he shrugs, as calm as he can muster. He isn't ready yet, to tell her of his new mantle. He isn't ready to accept it himself.

He dares not glance over at the Jedi, standing, supported by Fennec, but he can feel his eyes lingering on him as he moves about - checks the hangar for anything they've missed, tucks Grogu carefully into the pouch at his hip. He has to have picked up on the Darksaber by now, with his Jedi senses, wizard powers. He can see it, plain as day, slung at Din's belt, though he has tried to hide it from him in the folds of his cloak.

"All set?" he asks, and they all nod. Boba is on the ship already, preparing to set their course in the cockpit; Fennec and Cara help Luke start up the ramp, supporting him on either side. Artoo follows in their wake.

Din takes one last look around - sweeps the perimeter, as is his wont. Grogu whines a little from his pouch, like he is eager to get going - but something makes Din pause.

The two Mandalorian women stand on the other side of the bay, watching him eerily, stock-still before the lift doors.

He has a feeling this is not the last he'll be seeing of them.

 _"Where to, my friends?"_ Fett's voice crackles over the intercom from the pilot's chair, as the five of them situate themselves into the crowded main cabin. Din takes the seat farthest to the back and settles down with Grogu, taking him gingerly from his _birikad_ and setting him in his lap.

"Nevarro," Cara calls, sending a look to Din like she's asking his approval. "I have some people from the New Republic I need to contact. Mando, is that...?"

She seems nervous, suddenly: small and timid, like a child asking for money from a weary parent.

"Of course," he tells her; wishes she could see him smiling. Thinks about how Grogu'll be interested in reuniting with those cookies he got ahold of last time they were there...

And he can visit the Armorer, too. Ask for her advice, her help with the Darksaber, the title of _Mand'alor_. She has guided him in the past - she advised him on his duty to Grogu, helped him see the Way. Ensured that he knew the child he had found, protected with every fibre of his being, was his son.

 _"Nevarro it is, then,"_ Boba calls, and the static of the comm system shuts off.

The ship rotates around them, engines igniting. For the first time in many days, Din feels like he can breathe again.

"We did it, kid," he says quietly to Grogu, taking his tiny little hands in his own. "Everything's gonna be okay."

His child smiles up at him like Din's is the only face he knows. He holds him close, arranges his cloak so it covers Grogu, snug and warm about his waist. Fatigue threatens to take him, and he shifts back in the padded chair until he is more comfortable. Grogu is already drifting off, unable to keep his eyes open a second longer. The quiet conversation between Fennec and Cara washes over him, their hushed voices providing the soft murmur he needs, is accustomed to falling asleep to. Grew up hearing in the covert, even from behind thick sewer walls.

From the corner of the cabin, he feels Luke's eyes upon him. He pretends not to notice, lying back against the headrest and letting himself enjoy this moment, this final sense of calm. Even so, he cannot help but wonder what the Jedi is thinking - if he no longer trusts Din, if he regrets ever following them to the cruiser in the first place. If he will still take Grogu as his pupil, once he finds out who his father has become.

But enough of this.

He puts it from his mind completely, lets the throes of sleep catch him as he falls. He will relish this small bit of peace, until there is none left for him to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando'a Translations (in order of appearance):**  
>  _Kir'manir_ \- To give one a soul  
>  _Rejorhaa_ \- Explanation  
>  _birikad_ \- baby-carrying harness  
>  _Takisit, Gro'ika._ \- I'm sorry, little one.  
>  _Gro'ika_ \- Little Grogu  
>  _beskar_ \- Mandalorian iron  
>  _ke'jorhaa'ir_ \- speak  
>  _ni ke'gyce gar, sa Mand'alor_ \- I command you, as Mand'alor  
>  _suvarir_ \- fine  
>  _Tion'jor gar rujurkad Jetii?_ \- Why did you shoot the Jedi?  
>  _Ni rucopaanir akaanir gar. Par dha-kad._ \- I wanted to fight you. For the Darksaber.  
>  _Tion'bid gar runarir sa areutii?_ \- So you acted as a traitor?  
>  _meg ni runarir, par Manda'yaim_ \- what I did, I did for Mandalore  
>  _Tion'liser gar sirbur arasuum?_ \- Can you say the same of yourself?  
>  _Gar dar'manda. R'aruetyc'ir gar Mando'ade. Rushukur ijaat._ \- You are not Mandalorian. You betrayed one of your own. You defied the creed.  
>  _Ni oyacyir de ner solus olar. Gar ruhiibir meg r'lbac'ner._ \- I live by my own creed. You took what was mine.  
>  _Ne_ copaanir! - I don't _want it!_  
>  _Ne copaanir! Ni dinu!_ \- I don't want it! Take it!  
>  _Tion'jor?_ \- Why?  
>  _nu'vaabir jare'la_ \- I didn't ask for this  
>  _An ibac jaon'yc ner ad. Naas ashi._ \- All that matters to me is my son. Nothing else.  
>  _Ori'haat?_ \- Really?  
>  _Tion'gar nunarir shebs'ul ne'waadas?_ \- You don't lust for power?  
>  _Nayc._ \- No.  
>  _Kaysh an ibac jaon'nyc._ \- He is all that matters.  
>  _Kote lo'shebs'ul narit. Gar laandur._ \- You can keep your glory. You are weak.  
>  _Kaysh_ ori'haat _gar ad?_ \- Is he _really_ your son?  
>  _Tion'runarir gai bal manda?_ \- Have you performed the adoption rite?  
>  _Mando'ade_ \- Mandalorian  
>  _ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad_ \- I know your name as my child  
>  _elek_ \- yes  
>  _Kaysh ner ad, de manda._ \- He is my son, by way of Mandalore.  
>  _ni akaan nu'ganar_ \- I have no quarrel with you  
>  _N'akaanir._ \- I will not fight you.  
>  _Me'ven? Tion'nu'ti kyr'amur?_ \- What are you talking about? You aren't going to kill me?  
>  _Meh gar kyrayc, shuk bah ni._ \- You're no use to me dead.  
>  _Ni ba'slanar. Enteyor gar osik cinarin._ \- We're leaving. I have to clean up the mess you made.  
>  _can'gal dinuir_ \- I'll leave you the star destroyer  
>  _meh orit troan tengaanar draar tug'yc. Tayli'bac?_ \- as long as you swear never to show your face to me again. Do you understand?  
>  _Ni taylir._ \- I swear it.  
>  _Jetii haa'taylir tug'yc, ni kyr'amur neparer_ \- if you so much as look at the Jedi again, I will not hesitate to kill you  
>  _ven'digur troan draar_ \- I won't forget your face  
>  _Mand'alor_ \- ruler of Mandalore/your highness
> 
> The response and feedback I've received on this fic so far has shocked me in the best way. To all of you who've read, left kudos, or commented, thank you!! I appreciate you all so much, and I love discussing my writing with people. I read and respond to each and every comment. If you have any theories or ideas about chapters to come, please don't hesitate to yell at me about them!!!
> 
> If there's anything I hope these first couple chapters convey, it's that Din Djarin is stressed out of his goddamn little mind, and that his stress and grief deserve to be explored. That being said - thank you for suffering through what I hope will be the two slowest chapters of this fic! The plot will start picking up right at the start of the next chapter, because... this is "Star Wars," what do you mean? Of _course_ I'm gonna write Din and the Darksaber in action.
> 
> (Also, if you have any know-how on Mando'a, and I've made any mistakes/grammatical errors, please feel free to correct me below! I am a fluent English and Japanese speaker, which are two very different languages, so word order and sentence structure can get a bit... interesting sometimes, to say the least.)

**Author's Note:**

> **Language sources:**   
> 
> 
>   * [Mando'a Database](http://mandoa.org/)
>   * [Mando'a](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mando%27a/Legends)
> 

> 
> I'm on Tumblr as @[iamonewithyouandyouarewithme](https://iamonewithyouandyouarewithme.tumblr.com)! Come swing by or [send me an ask](https://iamonewithyouandyouarewithme.tumblr.com/ask)!
> 
> Comments and kudos are treasured and prized - if you have the time, please feel free to leave one or the other (or even both)!


End file.
